


Stairway to Heaven

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), M/M, Oral Sex, Stockings, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a very logical explanation for the fact that Sherlock was lounging on their bed in sheer black stockings, a lacy suspender belt,  and nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission. Thank you :)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stairway to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> For my American friend suspenders = garters

John's sex-life pre-Sherlock had been good, great, fine. A bit vanilla, maybe, but satisfactory all-round. He had to admit, given the whole “riding crop in the mortuary” and Sherlock's predilection for experiments, he'd been concerned when they became lovers. He'd expected, almost feared, that Sherlock's tastes would run to the exotic in bed, or over the kitchen table, or against the wall.

Yet John was the one who discovered, on a fairly frequent basis, unexpected kinks in his sexual proclivities. 

It wasn't even deliberate. It's not like they set out to explore the pantheon of what two people could do together. It just... happened. Sherlock would do something, and John would find out that, yeah, outdoor sex was bloody brilliant, especially with the wide wings of the Belstaff falling around them, warm and secretive. Or that getting blown while hiding at a crime-scene blurred the line of adrenaline and release in a way that made him see stars.

Or that, actually, one of the best feelings in the world was unravelling Sherlock with his touch, regardless of how or when or where he was doing it.

So he shouldn't be surprised when he came home to, well, _this._

'It was the mistress,' Sherlock said from where he lay on his back, draped like a Libertine over the bed. 'She claimed she woke up to find the victim dead beside her, screamed in a suitably distressed fashion and called for help.' He blinked at the ceiling, apparently oblivious to the fact that John was gaping at him, before returning his gaze to the mobile in his hands, his fingers tapping the keys as he typed a message. 'According to her own statement, she was naked when she awoke having had sex the previous night and managed, despite her shock, to dress herself in underwear and a robe before the police's arrival. Including, as we saw, stockings and a suspender belt.'

John made a – noise. A sort of croaking, rasping growl. He had noticed the woman, vaguely. Thought she looked pretty well put together for someone who'd opened her eyes to find herself sharing a bed with a corpse, but he hadn't given it much more consideration. 'She was lying?' he managed, licking his lips and trying – God, _trying_ – to pay attention to what Sherlock was saying.

'I could accept someone throwing on a bra and knickers while sobbing their eyes out, but she was wearing an eight point suspender belt and stockings with a back seam.' Sherlock pulled a face. 'The police arrived within six minutes of the emergency call, as you'd expect considering the central London location. That's not enough time to slip on the stockings and fasten that many clips in such a symmetrical manner. Especially if she'd been truly distressed during the process.' 

He waved a hand in a nonchalant gesture, barely pausing for breath. 'Even if she'd left the clasps in place the previous night when she removed them, the line down the back of her legs shouldn't have been straight. You could have used it as a ruler, and believe me, it's not as easy as you might think.' He sighed in annoyance, turning on his side in demonstration. 'It took me at least twelve minutes with a mirror, and that was with steady hands. If she was as worked up about it as she claimed, she would have put her thumb through the silk.'

And that was a very logical explanation for the fact that Sherlock was lounging on their bed in sheer black stockings with, yes, a wobbly seam up the back, a lacy suspender belt low on his hips and nothing else.

If asked, before that moment, how he'd react to such a sight, John would have guessed with moderate amusement. That really was not an adequate description for what he felt. Sherlock looked good in the sharp lines of a suit or the somewhat arrogant swathe of a sheet, but women's underwear (if you could call stockings underwear) of any kind should just look, well, stupid: out of place on his leggy, angular, masculine frame.

It really didn't.

Maybe it was the contrast of dark silk and lace and creamy white skin, or the way the sheer material seemed to emphasise the strength of his thighs and calves. Perhaps it was the striking vulnerability of his feet, not sinister and wicked in high-heels, but bare bar a sheath of gossamer fabric. More likely, it was Sherlock himself, his cock framed by the stretch of the cinching belt and the caged bars of the suspenders: his masculinity on unashamed display. 

Whatever the reason, John was half-faint with the abrupt rush of blood straight to his crotch.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers clenching as he struggled against the urge to reach out and touch. It was unlikely Sherlock was doing this in an effort at seduction; he'd just explained it was about a case. They'd been together long enough for John to know that while sex during an investigation did happen, it was always on Sherlock's terms. The chances were good that he'd get rejected rather than be welcomed with open arms.

'You all right?' Sherlock's eyes clung to the screen of his phone, only darting upwards – puzzled and perhaps somewhat annoyed at John's lack of praise – when he'd sent the text. It took less than a heartbeat for the perplexed frown to change, smoothing into understanding and Jesus, was John really that obvious?

Apparently so, because Sherlock's mouth curved into a grin, reckless and intrigued. He was straightforward in a way so many of John's former partners hadn't been. If he didn't want sex, he said so, and that was the end of it. If he did, or if he could be convinced it was a good idea, then he was unashamed to let John know. With words, a glance or, like now, with the pink flicker of his tongue over his bottom lip as his gaze scorched a line from John's face to the erection tenting his jeans and back up again.

One eyebrow lifted. 'Stockings?'

John took a breath, which may as well have been smoke for all the good it did him, and when he spoke his voice came out strained, but honest. 'I think it's more you in stockings, actually.'

Sherlock huffed a delighted laugh, and the brief look on his face made John forget about the hardness in his trousers for a moment and relish the softness in his heart instead. A feathery rush surged through his ribs, the same as it did every time he saw Sherlock happy and a little flushed, as if he was surprised, still, after all this time, that John found him worthy of any kind of admiration.

A second later, affection was drowned out by the solid war drums of arousal. Sherlock's expression took on a coy slant, and he dropped the phone on the floor, dismissing it as his left hand caught in the sheets and his right skimmed downward, across his chest, down the shallow bowl of his stomach and lower. The pallor of his fingers was briefly shocking against the slender black suspender belt before his grip curled, brash and brazen, around his cock, which was already starting to flush and darken.

The two of them groaned at the same time, and John swayed where he stood, torn between wanting to join in and standing back to enjoy the show. Sherlock was good at this. He knew how to move his body to get attention, practically pornographic, but where most people risked looking ridiculous he seemed natural and flowing, as if he had been made to spread himself out for John and perform. 

But it was better, so much better, when the choreography fell away, and deliberate, provocative teasing shook apart beneath the genuine surge of Sherlock enjoying himself. John knew it well, subtle as the change could be, and now he watched, his crotch aching from the pressure of his jeans and his heart slamming against his ribs as he waited for the minuscule tells of Sherlock's true desire.

He did not need much patience. 

A small stutter of Sherlock's hips, out of place in their previous, elegant roll was the first sign, shortly followed by a hitch in his breathing. The slow squeeze and stroke along his length began to concentrate on the sweet spots John knew so well, Sherlock's focus changing from enticing John to chasing his own ecstasy. Dark lashes fluttered, and his next hum was a fraction breathless as he stretched out his left hand to pull John close.

He went willingly, didn't he always? It didn't matter if they were tailing a criminal through London or rutting themselves half-blind between the sheets: Sherlock led, and John followed, eager and willing. 

A rash of heat prickled over his skin as he placed one knee between Sherlock's thighs, bracing his weight so he could bend down and capture that lush mouth with his. The response was immediate, Sherlock's lips parting on happy little gasp, drinking John in as his body gave a tight writhe of enjoyment, back arched to brush sensitive skin against John's fully-clad body. One leg canted over his hip, bossy and demanding, Sherlock's heel digging in to the back of John's thigh as he wriggled beneath him, the kiss turning wet, dirty and desperate.

'I thought I was the horny one?' John breathed, breaking away and skimming his hand down Sherlock's side to cup the ridge of his hip, tracing the boundary of silk and skin in fascination. 

'I solved the case,' Sherlock pointed out, tipping his head back and wrapping his fingers in the hem of John's jumper. He peeled it off and flicked open the buttons on the shirt beneath so he could dip beneath the fabric, his fingers dancing John's chest and stomach as if it had been days, rather than hours since they last touched.

'Turned on by your own genius?'

'By your appreciation of it,' Sherlock corrected, smoothing down John's body to cup his caged erection and moaning as his hips bucked. Sherlock's tongue was a flash of deep pink across the curve of his pout, and John grunted in surprise as he was abruptly flipped onto his back, a willing victim to the shimmy of Sherlock's body as he headed downwards.

John mouthed a curse at the ceiling, slipping his hands into dark curls. He knew where this was going, and his cock ached in anticipation. Sherlock's words could be cruel and his remarks biting, but when it came to this, his mouth on John's dick was nothing short of worship: a sinner on his knees. 

Except that took those long, silk-clad legs too far away. Sherlock would take John to pieces before he could blink, given half the chance, and John wanted the opportunity to relish this unexpectedly sensuous display. 

With a gentle tug on Sherlock's hair, he guided him up and back, shifting so that they were both on their knees. A petulant scowl tilted Sherlock’s expression, his lips parted around a protest which John hurriedly kissed it away. Twin moans shook the air as Sherlock's nimble fingers yanked down John's fly and delved inside, shoving John's jeans and underwear down around his thighs before grasping his prize.

John tried to think around the flash-fire that shot along his nerves, his words stumbling from numb lips as his hips gave a fretful stutter. 'Ah, Sherlock!' He dragged in a deep breath, brushing his nose along the side of Sherlock's before nudging him back down to the mattress. 'I've got an idea. Lie on your side?'

The instruction earned him a sceptically raised eyebrow, but Sherlock did as he was told, his eyes flashing with possibilities. A second later, he guessed where John was heading with this, and John laughed as he was dragged down to the bed, on his side and inverted to Sherlock's current position in a classic sixty-nine.

'Brilliant,' Sherlock purred, nuzzling at John's naked thighs before flickering his tongue out for a taste that made his spine coil. The next second, his erection was surrounded in moist heat, Sherlock's fingers shoving John's jeans down below his knees before leaving them there. It meant he was partially restrained by the thick band of denim, unable to do more that spread his legs in invitation and struggle to focus on giving as much pleasure as he got.

Every breath was full of the scent of Sherlock, and he nuzzled into the flesh in front of him, inhaling deeply. It was drug-like and addicting, and he bit his lip before wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's length, gifting him a quick, teasing stroke before he lapped along the column of flesh. The upside-down angle made it different than usual, and John struggled to map the moves he knew Sherlock liked. None of it was helped by the fact that Sherlock's mouth and fingers were so distracting, rolling John's balls and tensing around his base. His tongue flickered and swirled, tormenting, as if he were waiting for John to catch up.

Quickly, John sucked in a breath, steadying his control before he closed his lips around Sherlock's shaft and drew him in, tasting the sharp-edged flavour of pre-come and revelling in the muffled moan his actions caused. It was tempting to say something snarky about not talking with his mouth full, but considering how they were in the same state, it seemed a bit redundant. Besides, John was losing himself to the warm weight against his tongue and the slide of fragile skin between the carefully guarded edges of his teeth. 

His fist lifted to meet his mouth, setting up a rhythm as his spare hand banded the top of Sherlock's thigh, sensing the stripe of the suspenders and the sleek silk captured in their grasp. Obsessively, he traced the lines, enjoying the tension of the strong elastic and the soft plumpness of Sherlock's sleek flesh beneath. It was an added sensation, one in contrast to the solid heat he devoured, and John's groan of appreciation made Sherlock break back with a curse.

John would have smirked if he could, trembling as the cool air chilled his split-slick arousal before Sherlock's mouth claimed him again. His fingers moving with renewed enthusiasm around and back, tracing the cleft of John's arse before shifting around to press one knuckle up behind his balls.

Sparks exploded behind John's closed eyelids, and his hips lurched forward. A choked cry of pleasure escaped as Sherlock's throat flexed against the intrusion, and he released Sherlock's erection to stammer an apology. However, his words fell on deaf ears, meaningless as Sherlock drew back a fraction and continued his torment, his tongue circling with purpose as he hollowed his cheeks and slid his fist around John's length, dragging him closer to the edge

There was barely time to cry out a warning, and John knew from experience Sherlock would ignore it anyway. Between one shudder of desire and the next, John's orgasm hit him, clawing down his spine and through his stomach. A harsh sob caught in his throat, and he pressed his face into the vulnerable flesh of Sherlock's thigh, the dark silk striking a dichotomous line across his cheek as he shuddered and pulsed, twitching in the sultry confines of Sherlock's mouth.

Finally, the last wave ebbed, leaving him panting and wrecked. Sherlock gave a smug growl as he licked John clean. He tried not to swear at the lave of his tongue against his sensitive flesh. Luckily, he knew the perfect distraction, and he blinked aside the fading haze of his release before catching Sherlock in his mouth.

A startled gasp cut through the peace, and John swiftly found his old rhythm, moving with practice over Sherlock's length. He felt his lover shift, and growled in complaint as his hips moved back, forcing John to follow. Cracking open one eye, he realised Sherlock had curled around, closing the circle to rest his head on John's bare hip. Silver eyes, half-lidded and dark, watched John work, his swollen mouth glistening obscenely with the evidence of what he'd just done.

His fingers dug into John's flesh as he hit a good spot, his whispered breaths becoming a ragged groan as John chased after a repeat. His hand skimmed around, palming the luscious swell of Sherlock's arse before his fingertip plucked at one of the belts, pulling it up and releasing it with a gentle snap.

The reaction was instantaneous. Sherlock jerked, his cock thickening as his moan gathered volume and intensity. His eyes were shut now, clamped tight as he lost himself to the talents of John's mouth, and he wasted no time in repeating the action, knowing Sherlock's creamy skin would flush beautifully beneath the assault.

'J- John – !'

John eased forward, taking Sherlock as deep as he could, humming around the intrusion and sucking for all he was worth. A moment later, he sensed Sherlock tip over the edge to completion. Hot fluid splashed his throat and tongue, slightly bitter, and John swallowed the flood, preferring the flavour to having to clean up too much mess. His hands cupped Sherlock's hips, tanned fingers striking lines across the dark fabric as he held him steady, controlling the helpless thrusts that would otherwise choke him.

With one last drag of his lips, he let Sherlock go, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He could feel Sherlock shaking in the aftermath, loose-limbed and lazy where he sprawled, his breath fluttering up the ridge of John's bare hip. 

'All right?' he asked, laughing when his only response was a tremulous moan. Stiffly, he propped himself up one on elbow, taking in the sight of his satisfied lover. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, and a faint gleam of sweat was just visible on back curve of one shoulder. Yet still the best part of the view was Sherlock's erection, dwindling now, where it lay against the sable frame of the suspenders. 

And if John stretched his neck, he could just see one pink stripe across Sherlock’s backside, neatly outlining the bar of elastic he had snapped against the canvas of his skin.

'So,' Sherlock rasped, his voice breathless and shaky as he ran his hand down over his hip, indicating the stretchy fabric now stained with drool and worse. 'I suppose we're keeping these, then?'

John brushed his hands along Sherlock's thigh, his fingers finding the seam and tracing its length up to the fullness at its peak. A grin broke across his face as Sherlock gave a needy whine, probably more sensitive than aroused, but definitely in a good place. 

Really, there was only one answer to offer.

'God, yes.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> B xxx  
> [My Tumblr](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com)  
> [My Sherlock Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works?fandom_id=133185)  
> [My Hobbit Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kingmaker/works?fandom_id=873394)  
> [My Fullmetal Alchemist Fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction_FMA/works)


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